


Waltz

by athena_crikey



Series: Songbird [5]
Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Attraction, Drama, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jakes is always a control freak in my AUs, Jakes lives too much in his own head, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Sort Of, Supernaturally Attractive, Undercover As Gay, case-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 01:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13869966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: This is the kind of backdrop Jakes always imagined for a songbird, the kind of place he used to believe Morse belonged, on the arm of some rich letch with more money than brains.And now it’s his arm Morse is on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In 5 years in this fandom, I have never once written Morse/Jakes. Now I have broken my record...

Fred Thursday is cross.

Jakes is in no uncertainty about it; when a DI is cross, he tends to spread it around with a big spoon. DIs control not just the shift rotation and the duty rota, they also set the tone of their offices, giving them nearly boundless scope to take out their displeasure on others. Right now the atmosphere is tense, men huddled at their desks keeping their heads down for fear of having them bitten off. 

At the moment, Thursday is closeted with Bright in the latter’s draughty office. It’s a wood-paneled room in the corner of the station, receiving both north and east winds through poorly fitted windows, making it an ice box in the winter. As it is, in early November with poppies starting to blossom on collars and lapels, there’s a definite chill there. But it’s not frigid enough to freeze out Thursday’s temper; his upraised voice is audible through the thin wall. 

After several minutes in with Bright he slams out of the DCS’s office, blowing like a storm cloud through the CID and settling dourly into his office. “Jakes. Morse,” he barks through the open door; like sheepdogs to their shepherd they rise and trot in, eager not to be found wanting. 

“Mr Bright has received a request from London – Piccadilly. There’s a drugs racket being run through high-end dos, relying on the reputation of those attending to safeguard it. Given they can count some of the lesser royals along with a smattering of peers and millionaires in their number, so far it’s paid dividends.”

“So what, the Met’s turning to Oxford for advice on handling a posh set?” asks Jakes with wry wit. Thursday gives him a repressive look, and he realises with a kind of astonishment that he’s not so far off. 

“They want to plant a man on the inside; one whose credentials are above suspicion.” Thursday looks to Morse; Jakes turns to look at the songbird an instant after him, the whole of the story suddenly playing out before his eyes. 

A songbird doesn’t need references; he’s his own admission to any high society function. Even one harbouring drug dealers. Morse may have forgone the gilded path of most songbirds to work in the gritty mill of coppering, but there’s no denying his pedigree. 

Morse swallows once but says nothing. His bright eyes show trepidation but it doesn’t transmute to his face. He stands straight-backed before his keeper, weight shifted slightly to the side with nothing but attention showing in his expression. If there’s a hint of fire in his red-gold hair, it’s the only indication that his control has slipped a fraction. 

“I told them I wouldn’t send any of my men in alone; I’d go in with you, but I’ve still got a reputation in the Smoke that could send the operation south. So Mr Bright has agreed to sending the both of you instead.” He sits back and waits for a moment for them to digest it, although Jakes got there several sentences ago and can only assume Morse did as well. “All you have to do is flag who’s making the hand-outs. The London boys will make the arrest.” 

“Sounds like a stroll,” drawls Jakes. Thursday shifts his attention to him, frowning. 

“It won’t be. There will be at least five hundred people at the do you’re to attend, not counting wait staff. From the sounds of it London’s had their heads up their arses; no major leads, no way to narrow down suspects. Finding a needle in a haystack will be nothing compared to it.”

“Surely they must have some information,” says Morse, speaking for the first time. There’s a flash of irritation in his tone, the dissatisfaction that comes from seeing a job done poorly. Jakes has seen him use it often enough with their own uniformed officers to know it well. 

“They’ll pass on what they have when you run down. You’re to pack your things and go down by the 11:15 train. DS Turnbull will meet you at Paddington. I’ve been clear to them that you’re not to be considered property, and that you act on your own autonomy as far as the confines of the job permits,” adds Thursday.

“I doubt they believed you,” replies Morse.

Thursday shakes his head once, stone-cold serious. “I didn’t mince words.”

Morse nods slowly, accepting reluctantly. He smooths out a wrinkle in his jacket before crossing his arms with what looks like an expectation of disappointment to come. “What exactly is it we going to? And what is London expecting we wear?” he asks, fielding two questions Jakes hadn’t even seen on the horizon. 

Thursday gives him an irked look, suggesting he’s asked questions the DI would have rather he didn’t. “It’s a gala ball,” he answers after a momentary pause. “London’s arranging your kit.”

Morse looks snippy now. “And they can afford thousand-pound suits? We’ll stand out like sore thumbs otherwise. Might as well go in our uniforms, collar numbers and all.” 

“If you have a better idea, let’s hear it,” says Thursday, in a resigned tone. 

“I have an old suit that still fits,” he suggests, in a vague allusion to his life before the Force, before Thursday. “I can borrow one from a friend for Sergeant Jakes; it won’t fit perfectly, but it will stand out less than whatever London’s got planned.”

Jakes isn’t sure which option he prefers less, attending a posh do in a suit provided to him by the Met, or by Morse’s anonymous friend. He’s worked hard to make his own way in the shadow of a past that gave him no choices of his own, and that includes wearing what he chooses to. 

“I’ll leave that up to you,” says Thursday, wisely stepping out of the argument. “There’s one other thing.” Here he turns from Morse to Jakes, eyes dark and unreadable. Jakes feels a chill creep into the room as Thursday’s attention narrows on him, feels sudden uncertainty nibbling away in his gut. “Since there’s no place for me in this case, you’ll be acting as Morse’s keeper.”

Jakes feels as though he’s been punched in the stomach. The words wind him, even as he sees Morse look at him with brilliantly blue, impossibly wide eyes – his control’s slipping further. Jakes can see the uncertainty there, not quite fear but certainly nowhere near to trust. 

“It’s in name only,” continues Thursday heavily, bringing Jakes’ attention back to him like an iron filing to a magnet. “London will give you your documents, and they’ll include a new tag for Morse. You’ll only be gone a day or two – three at the outside – so there should be no issue with feeds.”

Meaning Morse. Meaning the affection Thursday feeds him at regular intervals in place of bedding him. 

Jakes can feel his colour rising. Morse looks quietly uncomfortable. Given his predilection to making his thoughts known, his silence doesn’t bode well. 

“If that’s all, you’d best get your traps together. I’ll not see you before you leave, so I’ll wish you good luck now.”

Neither of them smile.

Morse turns to go, preceding Jakes out of the office. The sergeant’s almost to the door before Thursday calls him back: “Sergeant, a word.”

Jakes turns and, following Thursday’s wave, closes the door before stepping closer to the desk. 

“I don’t think I need to tell you that if you take advantage of DC Morse in any way – or see any harm come to him – I’ll take it straight out of your hide without bothering to go through a disciplinary review.”

Jakes stands to attention, feeling a bead of sweat forming at his temple. “No, sir.”

“Good. Watch yourself, and watch out for Morse. He puts backs up easier than he smooths them down.” It’s the closest Jakes has ever come to hearing Thursday speak against his DC.

“Yes, sir.”

Thursday gives him a hard look, as though searching to see whether Jakes is shamming. Apparently convinced by what he sees, he gives a vague wave. “Very well then. On your way.”

Jakes turns and takes his leave. Outside in the outer office, Morse is already gone.

  
***

It doesn’t take Jakes long to pack for London. He folds his shirts neatly into his suitcase, draping ties alongside them and shoving socks and shorts in to the side. After some reflection he decides not to take his novel – an Ian Fleming; it’s unlikely he’ll have time to read it.

He meets Morse on the down line platform, the latter also carrying his own case and dressed as always in his car coat, his pale hands gloveless. It will be getting near to freezing as the nights grow longer, but still he stands without proper coat or gloves. A DC’s salary is sometimes hardly enough to keep body and soul together; Jakes remembers it well enough. But Morse doesn’t have the expense of feeding himself – he ought to be able to maintain a better wardrobe. His apparent disdain for his clothes is irksome – all the more so because it many ways it is irrelevant; Morse could look stunning in a potato sack. 

“You’ll give us away in that coat,” remarks Jakes cuttingly, standing beside him. Morse looks down to his coat and then over.

“I’ll borrow one when we get there,” replies Morse. In the pale sun of the November day he shines bright as a new penny, even his strict control not enough to disguise his beauty. It sends a flicker of irritation through Jakes, a prickle of testiness at the fact that his attraction to the songbird is so far out of his control. It’s bearable now, but the knowledge that all Morse has to do is let go of his rigid grip on his effervescence and Jakes could and would act on his need to possess Morse is starkly frightening. 

The fact that as far as he knows, Morse has never let himself go to such a degree while conscious, has never become the bed-mate of any of the men at the nick, is little comfort. The possibility is there; Morse’s very existence is a constant reminder of it. 

Jakes does not do well with loss of control.

  
***

They’re met at Paddington by DS Turnbull, a tall man of about fifty with salt-and-pepper hair and a hard face clawed from a recent too-close shave. He runs his eyes over Morse as though inspecting a side of meat, lips pursed; Jakes can practically hear him repressing the words, _You’ll do._

“I’ll bring you down to the nick for now; you can go over our photos and familiarize yourself with the crowd. The party starts at ten; you’ve plenty of time to pull yourselves together before then.”

“I heard you hadn’t much information,” says Morse as they push their way through the crowds towards the station exit. Jakes frowns at him but he fails to pick up on the signal.

“We do alright,” replies Turnbull staunchly. “Better than we’d do on our backs all day,” he adds.

Jakes catches sight of Morse’s expression; he looks as though he’s been slapped, cheeks a sudden furious red. He shuts up sharply, and doesn’t speak again for the remainder of the trip to Turnbull’s nick.

  
***

One station is much like another, although the West End station is significantly busier than Cowley. They come in through the back, passing between a sea of men and women in uniform and a few in plain clothes. Up two flights of stairs to the CID Vice division.

As they walk through the door into the office, someone whistles. Chatter and movement stop as the squad comes to a halt to stare at Jakes and Morse. Or rather, just at Morse. 

He stands straight-backed in the face of their combined malevolent curiosity, all high cheekbones and haughty eyes. In the back of the room someone makes a muffled comment; several others snigger. 

A few months ago, it would have been Jakes sniggering. He and Morse are still only wary allies, nothing close to friendship between them. Jakes suddenly resents both Thursday and Morse for putting him in this position, here to act as a sour-faced chaperone when he could have otherwise been making valuable connections in the Met. 

Turnbull’s disappeared; he reappears a moment later at the side of a lanky younger man with a babyish face offset by hard, tired eyes. “DI Cunningham.” He shakes both Jakes and Morse’s hands without any apparent emotion, then turns back to the room.

“Alright lads, quiet down. These’re DS Jakes and DC Morse from Oxford, brought down to sniff around tonight’s gala do. DC Hammond’ll take you through the happy snaps,” he says, indicating a hefty man with sandy hair and a double chin. 

Jakes is standing close enough to Morse that he catches Hammond’s look, the lust-soaked covetousness of it as he eyes up Morse. 

Without Jakes willing it, without any intention on his part at all, an old memory surfaces from the depths like a kraken to embrace him in its steely grip. Wintergreen, staring at him from his bedroom doorway, eyes shining with the same hunger. 

Jakes tastes bile at the back of his throat, suddenly chilled to the bone despite the fact that he’s wearing his coat. For a moment the world passes him by, trapped in the cold colourless landscape of his memories. When he snaps out of it, Morse has moved over to the desk and is standing beside Hammond, expression dull and closed-off. Hardly any of his light shines through the cloak of his control; he very nearly looks like a regular man. 

They both of them have such secrets, Jakes realises with a blunt pressure in his chest. 

He steps over behind Morse and looks down to Hammond, glaring down at the man and drawing his attention. “Let’s see these photos, then.”

  
***

They spend the afternoon and early evening at the nick, reviewing photos and then some film taken of the cast of characters they’re to infiltrate that night. When they’re done, Turnbull provides them with their covers for the evening: Jakes is to be Roger Stanwick, and Morse William Davis; they’re given papers to that effect. Both supposedly hail from Kent, Jakes the heir to a tonic and elixir business – in other words, a snake-oil salesman – and Morse his kept thing. Nouveau-riche, and hungry for the world without a care to following its rules, Turnbull tells him. He doesn’t bother to give Morse any instructions.

Turnbull hands Morse his new tag without ceremony, waiting impatiently for Morse to take it from his hand. “You can give me your other,” he says; Morse shakes his head.

“I’ll leave it with my belongings,” he says, mulishly. Turnbull looks to Jakes, who stares back, and then backs down. 

“What about our tickets?” asks Jakes.

“He’s your ticket,” Turnbull indicates Morse with his thumb. 

Jakes feels ire well up inside him. But Morse, as usual when it comes to stroppiness, beats him to the punch. “I’m not a free pass,” he snaps. 

“The way I hear it, all you need to do is promise a little action to the man on the door. Should get you inside.”

“I’m no whore, either,” spits Morse. 

Turnbull eyes him up, apparently preparing for what Jakes judges will be a potentially fatal comment. Morse is perfectly capable of walking out, and though Thursday might take his side Bright is unlikely to look kindly upon such a failure. He intercedes. “All you have to do is show up,” he says, stepping between Morse and Hammond. “That should be enough to get us in, curiosity being what it is.”

Morse turns an unimpressed glare on him, blue eyes flashing. 

It’s nothing Jakes hasn’t seen before, and he remains unmoved. As long as the songbird hasn’t stormed out, this is a victory. 

“Where’re we staying?” asks Jakes. 

Turnbull smiles. “About that…”

  
***

They’ve been booked into the Grosvenor House Hotel, doubtless eating up much of Vice’s undercover budget. There’s a chance, however slight, that they may need to bring a suspect back to the hotel, in which case their story has to stand up.

“You can thank me later,” says Turnbull, dropping them off in front of the hotel; at the time, Jakes takes it to mean simply the luxury of the hotel.

Then they open the door to the room they’ve been assigned, and find the sole double bed. 

They stand in the doorway in silence for a minute, the bellhop hovering. But this, too, is part of being undercover. Jakes turns to give the lad a tip while Morse steps in, swinging his case up onto the bed. 

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” is all Morse says once the door is closed, pulling out a black jacket with his back to Jakes. 

Jakes doesn’t argue with him.

  
***

Morse stays in while Jakes goes out for dinner. In this neighbourhood it’s difficult to find something within his budget; eventually he happens upon a grimy pub hidden away in an alley, air blue with smoke and windows bricked over. He orders a meat pie and a lager, sitting alone in a corner to consume his meal.

It would all be so much easier, he considers, if Morse didn’t have to be so standoffish. Jakes grew up bouncing back from insults and injuries without letting the toll they took show. That Morse can’t seem to do the same he chalks up to weakness and ineptitude; for all his grace and elegance the songbird can be shockingly blunt and unperceptive. 

If it were any other man in the nick, Jakes would have let his irritation go a long time ago. But Morse draws his ire like a red flag, constantly forcing him to battle his attraction to the wayward DC while simultaneously putting him in his place – beneath Jakes. The competition for Thursday’s approval is all the more fierce given that Jakes is clearly the underdog. He’s been an underdog his whole life; after scraping his way to the top of the pack with his promotion to DS he thought the position of bagman would be his and with it Thursday’s trust. 

Being wrong stings – worse than that, it _burns_. And Morse is an easy target – is the best target – for his retribution. 

So he had firmly believed, until a few months ago when they found another songbird dead in a tree, and the case that unfurled from that grotesque discovery had shown just how far below him Morse is in the eyes of very nearly all the world – and how wrongly placed there he is. Songbirds can be more than just playthings, kept between silken sheets – Morse is living proof. To force him back into a life of servitude to slake the lust of rich men and women… 

Jakes shakes his head. There’s nothing he can do about the world’s preconceived notions of the best use for songbirds. And, in fact, there’s little he can do for Morse – especially given that the songbird is quite capable of torpedoing his own opportunities. 

All that remains is to carry on as best he can, trying to keep both himself and the songbird in check.

  
***

When he returns to the hotel around 9pm, Morse is already dressed.

He’s wearing a tailored tuxedo that fits him like a glove, broadening his slim shoulders and nipping in at the waist to emphasize his slender form. The trousers lie close to the curve of his arse and the strong muscles of his legs, cut coyly to hint at both hidden power and pleasure.

It’s a suit designed to put him on show, and it does. Even in the dim light of the hotel room he glows with an inner light, looking back over his shoulder as Jakes opens the door, caught unawares with his lip between his teeth. 

For an instant, the implications of it all – a single room with a single bed and a songbird to put in it – are almost overwhelming; Jakes feels his heart leaping, blood pounding to his prick. Then Morse turns away, and the yearning fades. 

“I’ve hung yours up in the closet,” he says, turning back to his examination of the scene outside the eight-storey window. London shines and beckons from beyond the glass, neon lights casting buildings in hues of red and orange that dance in his fiery hair. 

Jakes turns to the closet to examine the suit of clothes that have been provided for him; it’s a simple tux, but elegantly cut with long lapels tapering to sharp points and a silken bow-tie hung over the shoulder. He takes it and steps into the lav to change.

The suit fits well but not perfectly, a little long in the legs and the sleeve cuffs riding slightly too high. He does up his cufflinks and takes a moment to sculpt his hair in the mirror, feathering a comb through it until he’s satisfied with the product. Tonight he’s not Peter Jakes but Roger Stanwick, successful businessman and songbird keeper, a rising star with money to burn. 

Returning to the main room he finds Morse sitting in the chair that’s been provided by an elegant desk, back straight and legs crossed, a map spread out in front of him. The woollen coat he procured from a reluctant DC is hanging on the back of the chair, navy tails on the ground. He glances up at Jakes with disinterest, then returns his attention to the map.

Jakes sits down on the bed and checks his watch. They have a few minutes to spare before leaving; they’ll take the tube to the hotel where the gala is being held, only a few stops from here. 

“Do you have the new tag on?” he asks, the words _my tag_ not quite making it past his lips. Morse looks up, a hint of crossness flashing across his face. He nods once, sharply, and says nothing. There’s a touch of disapprobation in his eyes, his colour high as he faces down the sergeant from the other side of the room. “Where’s Thursday’s?” probes Jakes, refusing to back down in the face of Morse’s obvious displeasure. 

“In the Bible in the bedside table.”

Jakes leaves aside a discussion into the logic behind that choice – it should be safe there; that’s enough for the time being. “Alright.” He comes over to sit on the edge of the bed, pulls out his wallet and goes through the money Vice gave him, making sure he knows exactly what’s there. “What’s the protocol for this type of bash, anyhow?” he asks, eyes on the bills in his hands. 

He hears the map flutter on the table, Morse flattening a crease. “In what sense?”

Jakes looks up and meets cantankerous eyes. “You’re mine – do I let you dance with other men or women? Are you planning on hovering by my arm all night?”

“I scarcely think that would advance our purpose,” says Morse, dryly. “If you were really my keeper, my familiarity with others would be at your discretion. As it is, it would suit us best if I had a free rein. I’ll stay within your sight; that’s an acceptable arrangement. How possessive you care to be is up to you,” he adds, stiffly. “Some amount is indicated.”

“I won’t be on the floor foxtrotting with you, if that’s what you mean,” replies Jakes. The back of his mind is slipping down the sharp slope into dangerous thoughts – imagining the heat of Morse’s body held close in his arms, the curve of Morse’s arse so near to his hand, the headiness of the songbird’s scent. 

“Keep me on your arm when I’m nearby. That’s sufficient.”

Jakes frowns, fighting down distraction. “Mind you don’t dazzle me – I need a clear head.”

Morse gives him a flat, uncompromising look. “I’ll do my best.”

  
***

The navy blue of Morse’s borrowed coat sets off his eyes. Jakes notices it immediately, and then berates himself for it – he should be paying attention to more important matters, such as rehearsing his lines and making sure they cut the proper figure in the crisp November night.

Morse walks close by his side, hands tucked away in his deep pockets to disguise his lack of gloves. When they arrive at the hotel where the gala is being held then – and only then – does he take Jakes’ arm. 

They check their coats with the concierge, and without the two thick layers of wool between them Jakes can feel the solid press of Morse’s body beside him, the strength in the arm laying on top of his. Morse looks cool and collected; Jakes knows that for all his reservations he does as well – he mastered a poker face at a young age.

They’re directed down a long hallway to the ballroom. “You’d better keep your eyes to yourself,” says Morse softly as they approach the two men in hotel uniforms placed by the door to admit guests. Jakes, stupidly, turns to look at him and is momentarily stuck by the full force of Morse’s splendour. 

Morse’s eyes are sky blue, open wide with a doe’s innocence. His moist lips are slightly parted to let his breath escape as though he were flustered, his skin honey-gold under the warm lights above and shot across with freckles. His hips are cocked with an ingénue’s naïve coyness. 

Jakes catches his breath and pulls Morse closer. He’s suddenly eager to touch – to take – to taste Morse’s skin under his tongue and sink his fingers into Morse’s mouth, his hips, his –

Morse treads on his foot and Jakes blinks.

His momentary preoccupation is shaken, disturbed enough for him to be able to turn his attention for the first time to the two men on the door. 

Both are staring at Morse, hunger printed plainly across their faces. 

Jakes steps forward, Morse moving with him. Together, they move into the ballroom without question, the dumbstruck doormen staring silently after them.

“That’s what you call not dazzling, is it?” growls Jakes beneath his breath.

“We’re in,” replies Morse curtly. “That’s what you wanted.”

Jakes wants to tell Morse that he’s not the songbird’s goddamn plaything – if anything, Morse is _his_ plaything – but they’ve walked into the midst of a party in full swing, and there’s no opportunity for it. 

The gala is being held in two rooms, one large main ballroom with a modern band where the majority of the dancers revolve on the floor or stand by the drinks table and chatter, and one smaller more intimate room with a string quartet playing soft music. 

It only takes one look around the room for Jakes to know he’s never been in the presence of such wealth before. The women wear rustling silk frocks with large stones set in gold and silver around their necks and in their hair; the men wear diamond-studded ties and sharply-tailored suits. It’s utterly at odds with the scene he’s used to in Oxford’s few night clubs, where the girls where bum-short dresses and the men sweaters and cords, and twist to the latest tunes. 

As Jakes looks across the crowd, he feels his line of sight being inexorably drawn here and there – once to a girl in a pure white dress with coal-black hair swaying in the arms of a much older man, a second time to a tall middle-aged man with well-groomed silver hair taking a pudgy woman through the steps of the dance that’s currently playing. 

“You’re not alone,” he says to Morse. The songbird’s eyes are also flittering across the crowd. If he hears Jakes over the noise in the ballroom, he says nothing. 

In truth, Jakes shouldn’t be surprised. This is the kind of backdrop he always imagined for a songbird, the kind of place he used to believe Morse belonged, on the arm of some rich letch with more money than brains. 

And now it’s his arm Morse is on. 

“Go fetch us a drink,” says Jakes, lowering his hand and letting Morse slip free. “Then we split up.”

Morse gives him a quick, sharp glance, the closest he likely dares come to disapproval in this setting. But he walks across to the drinks table as commanded and picks Jakes up a whisky and soda. He returns and hands it to Jakes with a subservience the sergeant isn’t used to in him, more of his true self shining through than is usual. He’s not as stunning as he was at the door, but he’s slyly attractive, every movement sensual and beguiling. Every breath a reminder that he could easily be panting beneath Jakes should Jakes say the word. 

He takes the whisky, his hand lingering on Morse’s fingers for far longer than is necessary, as though he were as besotted by the songbird as the fools on the dancefloor. And, really, he probably isn’t that far off.

Morse waits for a moment before slipping away, melting seamlessly into the crowd. Jakes raises the tumbler to his lips and drinks deeply. 

It’s going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

Jakes is naturally outgoing, and although his accent earns him some early snubs he quickly comes to make new associations throughout the room. Many of the men and women he meets are known to him from the snaps and films back at the West End nick – regular attendees of the parties that have been marked as in use by the dope peddlers. 

Now and again he catches sight of Morse, sometimes making conversation, or slipping between rooms, or simply watching the dancing from the sidelines. He stands apart as something separate, other – it makes him easy to recognize, but it also draws potentially unwanted attention to him. Whenever Jakes spots him he has a crowd around him, basking in his sleek sensuality. He makes leaning against a wall erotic. 

It’s making finding the balance of possessiveness to trust difficult. Jakes would as soon leave him to his own devices, but he has both Thursday’s and Morse’s words in his head – Thursday’s admonishment to watch Morse, Morse’s own statement that some amount of possessiveness is expected. 

The difficulty is that once he starts trying to possess Morse, he doubts he’ll be able to stop. Even now from across the room he’s having a hard time restraining himself from reaching out to the songbird, eager to feel the press of Morse’s body against his. 

The easiest thing to do is blame Morse for this insufferable state, and he does. 

Jakes’ conversations don’t turn up any leads. Most of the party-goers are regulars, but none show apparent signs of drug use – if they needed to shoot up, they did so before attending and are now riding their highs; none of them are in short enough supply to start cracking up on the dancefloor. 

He moves into the smaller, calmer room adjacent to the ballroom, where couples are waltzing across the parquet floor. He looks across the room for Morse, intending to find out if the DC has made any better progress than he has, and catches sight of Morse. On the dancefloor. In the arms of a stranger. 

Jakes’ simmering instinct towards possession boils over. He strikes out across the dancefloor, cutting relentlessly through the swaying crowd until he reaches Morse’s side. The man he’s dancing with – older, heavier, with a pinched white face – looks to him. 

“He’s mine,” says Jakes simply. The words come out so easily, their relationship suddenly so simple. At this moment Morse is his, full stop. This is the clarity he’s been seeking all night. 

Morse’s eyes narrow. “I thought you didn’t want to dance.”

“I changed my mind.”

Morse’s partner shrugs and backs away and Jakes steps in, grasping Morse’s arm and laying his hand on the small of Morse’s back. 

“What are you doing?” hisses Morse, when they start moving, the gentle play of the strings partially covering his voice. “I was talking to him.”

“We didn’t come here to enjoy ourselves,” replies Jakes, frowning at Morse. Morse visibly fights to retain his temper, looking all the more beautiful for it; he moves sensuously, limbs elegantly straight, head held high. 

“No, we came to obtain information. Which is what I’ve been doing. Or haven’t you noticed what’s off here?”

Jakes almost pauses, Morse rocking slightly in his arms at the sudden unexpected shift to his rhythm. He tries to look around without attracting attention, searching to spot whatever it is Morse is referring to. He hasn’t noticed anything unusual himself since they arrived, except for Morse’s sudden desire to dance. 

“The quartet. They’ve been a trio for the past hour,” murmurs Morse, nodding towards the musicians in the corner. 

Trust Morse to notice a musical discrepancy. “That’s it? Maybe one of them’s got an upset stomach.”

“According to Edwin, the same musicians are contracted for many of the fetes. And they often play with three rather than four. It would be simple to package a couple of pounds of heroin in any of those instrument cases and then distribute it to customers over the evening.”

It’s not the most featherbrained of Morse’s theories. Jakes considers it as they sweep across the floor, Morse’s hand warm and dry in his. This close to Morse, it’s a struggle to maintain concentration. He’s shining far brighter than he does at work, a reminder to all of his worth and status, and of Jakes’ by association. A constant pressure on Jakes to lean in and kiss him. 

“We should find him. This missing musician,” manages Jakes, at last. “Do you know his name?”

“No, but I know what he looks like; I saw him at the beginning of the evening.”

The waltz comes to an end, couples stopping and separating. It’s a struggle to let go of Morse, a fight to release him. Jakes forces his mind to the matter at hand. “Alright, let’s go.”

  
***

It would probably be easier to split up, but Jakes has no idea what the missing musician looks like and in a room with hundreds of men in black tuxes a simple description won’t be sufficient. So together they return to the main ballroom and stand on the sidelines while Morse watches the dancers and Jakes watches the men and woman watching the songbird. He’s feeling tense and possessive, like a dog ready to scrap over a bone, and it is entirely Morse’s fault.

He finds himself abruptly wishing it were Thursday here instead of him; he wonders how the old man would handle his songbird’s brilliance. A nagging feeling in the back of his brain tells him it would likely be with better grace than he’s managing. He’s trapped halfway between wanting to possess or strangle Morse, a pendulum constantly swinging sharply between the two options. 

The ballroom has two exits; the first leads out into the main hotel lobby through which they came, the second leads into a long corridor letting out onto the men’s and women’s facilities, and a few quiet rooms with comfortable chairs and sofas for exhausted revelers to regain their strength in. Jakes and Morse check each of these rooms, Morse shaking his head minutely after a minute of lingering in the doorway. 

“The gents it is, then,” says Jakes, and leads the way. Morse follows awkwardly – songbirds don’t use the toilet. 

Inside there are a couple of tuxedoed men using the urinals; Jakes joins them while Morse glances around and then takes a place in front of a mirror – something Jakes has never before seen him use. He doesn’t have any need of it; he looks fabulous without effort. But it’s exactly the behaviour that would be expected of a songbird, primping endlessly over his appearance. 

Jakes can’t imagine Morse primping over anything. 

The two other men finish up and depart, leaving them alone in the room. Morse nods towards the stalls; one is occupied – has been the entire time. Jakes washes his hands to draw out the minutes, scrubbing scented soap into his palms and washing it off again. Finally finished he dries his hands and takes a look in the mirror himself, watching the stall behind him. 

There’s no sound coming from it, no hint of movement. Setting up in the gents would be a good cover – easy for anyone to join him in the next stall over and get a package handed to them inconspicuously beneath the wooden divider. Jakes looks over to Morse and then back at the stall; Morse nods.

They can’t burst in there – they’re not here as coppers after all, and they have nothing but the bare bones of a hunch. They would make the nick’s list of most brainless blunders if they barged in and all they found was some poor bastard on the toilet. What they really need is to find an excuse to stay and keep an eye on things, but that’s easier said than done. They’ve already been here too long, lingering for nearly ten minutes. Every minute more makes it more likely the man they’re looking for is in that stall – and makes it equally likely that they’ll have their covers blown when he emerges. 

Finally, after nearly fifteen minutes there’s a tapping of shoes on tile from behind the wooden partition. Jakes turns wide-eyed to Morse, and is met by a kind of grim calculation. 

An instant later Morse is pushing him up against the wall and plastering their mouths together. 

_He’s gone balmy_ , is Jakes’ first thought. There is no second; a red haze descends over Jakes’ mind as his body opens to Morse and his eyes close, mouth sliding eagerly against Morse’s and seeking out the wet warmth of his tongue. Morse has one hand behind Jakes’ head, the other wrapped about his back to pull him close. In the marvellous minute that follows Jakes runs his own hands through Morse’s silken hair, pressing up against him and fitting their two figures together like matched puzzle pieces. Morse’s body is warm and sinuous, the rhythm he sets urgent and demanding. 

And then, like a summer storm, it’s over. Morse is pulling away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “It was him,” he says, as though he hadn’t just been ravaging Jakes’ mouth. 

Jakes blinks dumbly. “What was who?” he manages, trying to pull the scattered pieces of his thoughts back into one cohesive whole. He’s breathing hard, heart racing, prick half-hard in his trousers. He feels very lost, caught suddenly unawares and vulnerable.

“The musician,” replies Morse. “In the stall. He just left.”

Jakes didn’t even hear the door open and shut. 

“We should follow him,” prompts Morse impatiently. 

Jakes is shaking. Partially from the unslaken lust, partially from a sudden billowing rage. Morse is no man, but in most ways he’s very close. To have just been pawed over by another man in a toilet, shoved up against a wall without his approval and _assaulted_ – he suddenly feels sick, feels his stomach turn sharply and reaches out to catch his balance on the marble countertop. 

He enjoyed it. Enjoyed the loss of control, enjoyed Morse’s forcing himself on him, _enjoyed the songbird’s touch._

“Get out,” he spits, thickly, at Morse. Then turns and steps sharply into an open stall to heave into the toilet there. It doesn’t take long; there isn’t much to bring up, just bile and whisky. 

When he finishes Morse is still standing by the sinks, looking uncertain. 

“I told you to get out,” repeats Jakes.

“It was just to keep our cover,” says Morse. “If I’d known –”

“Here’s how it is,” snarls Jakes, pushing past him towards the sink. “You never touch me again without my say-so. Full stop. Understood?”

Morse nods slowly. “Alright, if –”

Jakes cuts him off, uninterested in whatever it is he has to say. “Good. Then get out and call Cunningham. They’re taking over.”

He stares Morse down until the latter leaves, then turns his attention to washing the taste of vomit from his mouth.

  
***

They meet Cunningham and his men – Turnbull and Hammond and a pair of uniforms – in the hotel foyer, standing a decorous two feet from each other.

“It’s the violist you should investigate. Matthew Sty,” says Morse, having fished out the musician’s name in the time it took the West End coppers to get here. Cunningham’s face is unexpressive; Turnbull looks unimpressed. Hammond’s face is nearly entirely subsumed with lust, for all that Morse is now holding his control with a once-again firm grasp. 

“We believe him to be making his hand-offs in the gents,” breaks in Jakes. “We’ve a witness who can attest that he’s often absent for long periods of time at these functions. If you can get in quietly, you might catch him with the goods – he can’t have given them all out yet.”

Cunningham nods and pulls his men in to issue his orders – take in the violist for questioning, speak with Morse’s dancing partner Edwin. 

“You two come with us to make the identification,” Cunningham finishes, to Jakes’ surprise. He was anticipating that this farce of a night would be over and they would be free to go back to the hotel and – in his case – the nearest bar. 

So, looking now entirely like a troop of coppers despite his and Morse’s high-end suits, they return to the ball. Their warrant cards pass them by the doormen this time. Jakes spots Edwin in the crowd and pulls Turnbull aside to go speak with him; Morse takes Cunningham and Hammond through to the smaller room and the string quartet waiting there. 

By the time Jakes has made the peculiar introduction of Turnbull to Edwin – who turns out to be the chairman of the Royal Opera House – and pulled the two of them aside into one of the quieter back rooms to talk, he’s entirely lost track of Morse. He leaves Turnbull to his questions and back-tracks to the smaller of the two ballrooms, where he finds the quartet has returned to a trio and no police officers in evidence. 

Eventually he comes across Cunningham leading the violist down the hall. The uniformed constable has one hand on the musician’s shoulder; Cunningham is carrying his instrument case. 

“We’re returning to the nick, sergeant,” says the DI, pausing briefly.

“Yes, sir. Have you seen Morse?”

“He was showing Hammond the lav – we’re closing it off for now; we’ll want to get fingerprints.”

Better them than him trying to sift through the mess of prints that will result from fingerprinting a hotel bathroom, thinks Jakes. But he thanks Cunningham and takes himself off to the gents to collect Morse. 

The first hint that something’s not right is the thump on the wall he hears when still in the hallway, the door blocked by the other PC. He recognises Jakes and stands by to let him through.

“Let _go of me_ ,” hisses Morse as Jakes enters; he turns immediately to the stall the violist had occupied to see Hammond pinning Morse up against the wall with his superior weight, his mouth moving over the songbird’s cheek and down his bared throat. Morse fights against it, skin flushed and face screwed tight with fury. He’s kicking and lashing out, beating against Hammond – but pinned as he is his blows hold little strength.

Then Jakes is on scene, elbow over Hammond’s throat and pulling him off, his free arm wrestling Hammond’s right hand behind his back. “Get off him, you bastard,” snarls Jakes in his ear, even as Morse pushes him away and then ducks out of the stall to the wider space of the lav. 

Hammond elbows Jakes in the stomach, hard, and breaks away, panting and red-faced between the two Cowley detectives. He looks from Jakes to Morse, an ugly look of cunning coming into his face. “So this is how it is, is it? The two of you carrying on behind your old man’s back? Doesn’t mean you can’t share,” he says slyly, appealing to Jakes. “Bet he could still satisfy the two of us. Bet he’d _enjoy_ it.”

_You’ll enjoy it_. The words echo back across the years, more a command than a reassurance. Him sitting in the back of Wintergreen’s car, the man’s dark eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror. 

Hammond makes to lay a hand on Morse. Jakes punches him in the mouth. “He’s not yours, and he’s not mine. Let him be,” he says, as Hammond surges up. He feels more than hears Morse come to stand behind his shoulder, the two of them facing down the West End detective. 

“I’ll remember this,” spits Hammond, and scurries out of the loo. 

Jakes turns to find Morse buttoning up his collar, a pinched, angry look on his face. His tie lies undone around his neck.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” says Jakes, nursing his knuckles. 

Together, they leave.

  
***

They don’t say anything on the tube ride back to their hotel, Jakes staring out the windows at the darkness, Morse behind him, his terse face reflected in the glass.

Jakes had planned to go out and get properly pissed once this train-wreck of a night was over, but something’s not right with Morse. He’s jittery as they ride the lift up to their floor, fidgeting continuously with his sleeves, his tie, his pockets. His face, reflected in the mirrored lift door, is flushed – although whether from the crisp night air or his own preoccupation, Jakes can’t tell. His eyes are very bright, almost feverishly so, staring with the intensity of a trapped animal. 

They reach their floor and step out, walking together down the hall to their door, which Jakes opens. Only once they’re safely inside does Jakes speak: “It’s in the past,” he says, simply, propping himself up against the wall and lighting a cigarette. “Forget it and move on.”

Morse turns to give him a sudden, furious look. “That’s the answer, is it? Keep silent and don’t complain; wouldn’t want to ruin a _real_ DC’s career. I probably had it coming, after all.” He strips off the coat he borrowed from a West End ‘tec and throws it across the room. 

“If you think a songbird _could_ ruin a detective’s career, you’re dreaming,” retorts Jakes. Then, mastering his antagonism with difficulty, “I meant that there’s nothing to be done about it, so you might as well not dwell.” He knows perfectly well what repercussions the voiceless can effect: absolutely none whatsoever. 

“Easy for you to say,” says Morse, and Jakes feels his anger, his _rage_ start to simmer. “You can say no. You can punch bastards like Hammond in the teeth and walk away. You have control –”

“I damn well don’t,” snarls Jakes, stepping closer to Morse and staring him down. “Not around you. None of us do – you strip that from us and make us mindless, wanting _things_. Not men, not coppers, nothing but toy soldiers for you to play with.”

“Then this is my fault? You can’t control yourselves; I get what I asked for.”

_Yes_ , Jakes wants to say, wants to shout from the rooftops. _Halle-bloody-lujah, we’ve got contact._

Except for the memory of flaccid, heavy hands over him, touching him, hurting him. _This is your fault. You made me want this._

Jakes feels his jaw grow tense, feels his spine seem to fuse under the intense heat of the memories. He looks away, away from Morse’s spitting fury, away from his accusatory eyes and takes a long drag. “Why is it always so bloody _difficult_ with you?” he asks at last, staring blindly at the drawn curtains, voice near to breaking. “Once – just once – can’t you back down first?”

“Not when I’m right,” returns Morse, immediately, but with less vitriol. 

Jakes looks back at him, voice hard and sarcastic. “And you’re always right, aren’t you?” 

Morse stares back, silent and angry, eyes blazing and hands tense. 

“Fine,” says Jakes finally, throwing up his hands. “Wallow in self-pity. Blame Hammond, blame me, blame Bright for sending us out here. See if that makes it any better.”

“I didn’t seduce him,” says Morse, in a very low voice. “His actions were his and his alone.”

“And you can just draw that line?”

“ _Yes_ ,” snaps Morse. “Because it’s what I am. It’s what defines me, every minute of every day. I slip sometimes, I lose control, and I can’t help that. But I was entirely in control in that bathroom with Hammond, and what happened was not my fault. If you thought otherwise, why intervene?”

Jakes suddenly realises that he envies Morse his certainty, his absolute surety that he’s not to blame. He takes a step back, running a hand through his hair. 

“Thursday told me to look out for you,” he manages, lowering his hands. 

Morse gives him an appraising look. “That’s all there is to it? Because Thursday said so?”

“What do you want, Morse? A statement that I care? Proof that I worry about you? I don’t. I just…” he grits his teeth. “I’m a copper. It’s my job to put people who take advantage in their place, regardless of the circumstance.”

Morse crosses his arms over his chest; Jakes can see that he’s shaking. “Fine. Then we both know where we stand.”

“I’m the one who punched Hammond,” Jakes reminds him. “It’s me he’ll be after, if he chooses to file a complaint.”

“I thought you were just doing your job,” Morse says, dryly but without enmity. 

The antagonism is cooling, the terseness draining out of the room. Jakes feels himself relaxing, his shoulders loosening, and takes a moment to really look at Morse. 

He’s leaning up against the desk, arms crossed and eyes snapping. He has a fiery beauty and a hot-blooded physicality to him that scrapes against Jakes’ nerves. He can feel his heartrate increasing, feel a hunger growing in his stomach. 

“Turn it down a notch, would you?” says Jakes irritably. He finishes his cigarette and grinds the butt out.

Morse gives him a terse look. “I can’t. I can’t just dial down to nothing after…after what happened. That’s not how I’m made.” He shakes his head, lip caught between his teeth. 

“You managed perfectly fine after snogging me,” retorts Jakes.

“No, that’s part of it as well.” Looking carefully at Jakes, he slowly reaches out a hand to display a tremor. “You think it’s just you? You’re not the only one who feels it. Who needs it, sometimes. It’s been… a very long time,” he finishes, softly, withdrawing his hand. 

“Thursday feeds you,” he says. “Supposed to be enough, isn’t it?”

“You eat three meals a day. Don’t you ever get urges? The need to feel something?” replies Morse. “All the contact at the gala, the dancing, you… I hadn’t realised how hungry I was.”

Jakes’ mouth is abruptly dry, his expression intense. Nearly all Morse’s contact at the gala had been him; walking on his arm, waltzing in his arms, _kissing him_. The idea that it’s him that’s making the songbird hungry… It turns the tables fully on him, reflects back his own desire ten-fold. 

Morse catches his look and scowls. “Don’t worry,” he says, “You’ve made your position on being touched abundantly clear. I’ll take a pillow and turn in.”

Before he can stop himself, Jakes reaches out and catches Morse’s wrist in a light grip. “It’s not being touched I have a problem with. It’s you making my choices for me.”

His mind is ablaze, full of smoke and hunger and very little thought. Morse’s stroppy mouth is moist before him, and he very suddenly wants to take control of it as he’s never been able to in the past, to show the songbird just what he’s been asking for all these months.

“If you don’t want this, you’d better say so now,” he murmurs, leaning in. 

“Jakes…” Morse’s tone isn’t uncertain; if anything, it’s considering. 

“Well?”

Morse licks his lips, eyes bright with want. Jakes pushes forwards and seals their mouths together. 

A moment later he’s pushed Morse up against the desk, pressing their bodies against each other wantonly, one hand in Morse’s hair and the other creeping down his back. Morse is returning the kiss eagerly, shifting himself against Jakes to fit them together more seamlessly, until there is no telling where one of them ends and the other begins. 

Morse’s mouth is hot and wet under his, their tongues sliding against each other, Jakes eager to taste and touch, to exert control and feel Morse moan beneath him. His hand slides down to Morse’s waist and lower, fingers digging into Morse’s pert arse, making Morse twist against him. He can feel the press of Morse’s prick against his own and it’s making him incredibly hard, making him pant into the kiss, making him _want_. He pushes between them to tug at Morse’s waistband, lust-drunk fingers struggling with the button and zip. 

He manages it finally, pushing Morse’s trousers and shorts down to puddle around his ankles, giving him his first look at the songbird’s cock. It’s thick and erect and tipped with a dew-drop of precome, utterly perfect. “Oh Christ,” mutters Jakes, gut roiling hungrily. He’s overcome by the depth of his need, lost in a rough sea of yearning. Morse’s face is flushed, his eyes dark with his own lust, his skin practically shining in the hotel room’s low lights. He has his lip between his teeth again, giving him a look of hopeless hunger. 

Jakes drops to his knees and reaches out, taking Morse’s arse in both hands and kneading the smooth flesh. He runs his tongue up the underside of Morse’s cock, feeling the songbird tremble, and looks up to see Morse’s eyelids fluttering, his head thrown back and his mouth half-open. He moans as Jakes takes the head of his cock in his mouth, tonguing it and tasting him, drinking in the salty tang of his sex. 

His fingers slip closer to Morse’s opening, and he reaches one hand around intending to suck on them, only to have his hand caught by Morse. “You don’t need that,” the songbird says, pulling his hand back around. Jakes’ prick gives a hard throb and he feels his breath catch in his throat. He slips a finger into Morse’s arse and feels the slick wetness of it – already prepared for him, by his very nature ready for the act. It sets fire to Jakes’ skin, makes him bob his head roughly forward to take more of Morse’s prick into his mouth even as he penetrates him with two fingers, sliding them in and out. 

Morse is panting hard now, his long fingers caught on the edges of the desktop behind him, the desk’s flimsy back starting to thump against the wall as Jakes drives his fingers home into Morse’s core. Morse’s legs are spread wide to further expose himself to Jakes’ touch, to draw him in like a magnet. Jakes adds a third finger and Morse bites back a cry, body shaking with urgency. 

Jakes is feeling it too, feeling the raw need like a live current running through him. He stands and undoes his trousers, pushes them down with one hand even as he’s turning Morse to face the wall with the other. There’s no time for comfort or pleasantries, nothing but his unending desire. Morse spreads his hands on the wall, each hand like a star on the dark wallpaper, as Jakes lines himself up.

Despite the fingering Morse’s entrance is tight – incredibly so, the feel of Jakes’ cock pushing past his sleek muscles is amazing, unimaginable. Morse’s breathes are coming with huge shudders; Jakes takes his hips with both hands as he presses in, feels the hot slickness encasing his prick. He’s heaving as well, struggling to draw in all the oxygen his body needs, struggling to keep doing anything other than pound into Morse. He strokes in heavily, further and further until he can feel his bollocks stretched up against Morse’s arse. With his hips alone he starts driving in short, hard kicks.

Morse makes to lower a hand to his own prick; Jakes reaches out and catches it. “You’ll come when I make you,” he hisses into Morse’s ear, returning the hand to its position on the wall and rolling his hips against Morse’s. 

This close, Morse’s scent is unmistakable, part musk and part sex, it fills his nostrils and goes right to his head. He buries his face in Morse’s neck and fucks him as hard as he’s able, just the two of them in a London hotel room, lost in a world of their own.

Morse is keening now, letting out short breathy cries as Jakes’ hips meet his own, a sound suffused with want. Jakes slams himself in balls-deep and grinds them together, his own climax close at hand. “You’re going to come first,” he orders Morse, his fingers digging furrows into Morse’s hips. “I know you can.”

Morse gives a little moan, pressing his forehead to the wall. A moment later Jakes feels his orgasm overtake him, feels Morse’s arse contracting against his cock as he shudders. It’s beautiful, perfect, divine; Jakes shoves himself in and keeps fucking him, making Morse give aching cries. 

It’s the sound of him more than anything else that sets Jakes off, lets the release wash over him as he buries himself in Morse’s arse and comes inside him until he’s spent. 

Suddenly cold and empty he takes a breath, then another, resting against Morse’s back, his cock still inside the songbird. Morse’s breaths are slowing, his hands slipping lower on the wall. For just a moment they retain something of what they had, a lingering sense of oneness and completion. Then Jakes steps away, pulling out, and picks up his trousers. “I’m going to get cleaned up. You can come, if you want.”

After a few moments, Morse does.

  
***

They sleep together in the bed after all, Jakes not one to shut the barn door after the fact. With the lights out and the two of them exhausted by the day’s events, there’s not much of a risk of a repeat performance.

Jakes wakes early, before the autumn sun has reared its head. He lies still for a few minutes before switching on the light to find that Morse is already awake, sitting up silently beside him in the bed, sheet spread over his legs. Morse looks over at him, very much his old self – watchful and lost in his own thoughts. There’s no trace of his crossness from last night, or of his sensuality. 

Jakes is suddenly aware of the fact that if Morse tells Thursday what happened last night – if he even gives the DI a whiff of it – Jakes will be sent back to County so fast his head will spin, or worse. What seemed like a necessary, _inevitable_ choice last night suddenly in the light of hindsight seems remarkably daft. 

“Last night,” he begins, trying to find the right words for the situation. He and Morse have a trick of rubbing each other the wrong way; they neither of them need that right now. 

“We completed our assignment. We came back to the hotel. We went to sleep. Anything else is between the two of us and no one else.” Morse pushes the sheet back and stands; in his shorts and vest with such a wide expanse of freckled skin showing he should be alluring, should have Jakes sitting up and staring. But he’s got a tight control of himself this morning, and Jakes hardly feels a pang at the sight of him. 

“Fine by me,” says Jakes. 

Half an hour later, they’ve dressed, shaved and packed, and are checking out of the hotel on their way back to the West End nick to wrap up.

  
***

“Well done all round,” says Bright on their return to Cowley, the DCS all smiles. “A successful operation, and with the Met no less. The Chief Constable is very pleased.”

Which means, thinks Jakes, that Bright is doubly so. The cheer doesn’t appear to have trickled down to Thursday, who looms in the background behind the super, face expressionless but dark eyes watchful. 

Bright carries on: “We must be mindful that there may be other such opportunities to partner with other Forces. After all, the OCP has much to give.”

Jakes has to fight to keep a straight face at the hypocrisy of it. Bright hasn’t been any kind of supporter of Morse’s, but if there’s the opportunity to lend his songbird to other jurisdictions in return for prestige, suddenly Morse is a hot commodity. What kind of role those leases might encompass is for anyone to guess at; Jakes has a few obvious ideas – none of them pleasant. 

Thursday’s lack-lustre response to their return now makes sense. Jakes looks to Morse and sees the same buttoned-down wariness there. 

“Anything more to add, sergeant? Constable?”

They remain mute, and Bright passes over them. “Very well. You’re dismissed.”

“Morse,” Jakes says in the hallway, just before they return to CID; Thursday has gone on ahead and they’re alone in the hallway – as alone as anyone can be in the close confines of the nick. Morse turns to look back at him, and in the poor light there’s just a hint of honey to his skin, a reminder of last night. 

_There’s more to it than the job_ , is what he wants to say. _I punched Hammond for you, not Thursday._

“I’ve got some papers for you to file,” is what he does say. And, eyes on Morse’s lanky form, he watches him all the way back to their desks wondering about what could be, rather than what will.

END


End file.
